


i care for you still and i will forever (that was my part of the deal)

by all_their_intricacies



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Prompt Fill, Protective!Protagonist, Surgery - although nothing too graphic, hurt!neil, some off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26732590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_their_intricacies/pseuds/all_their_intricacies
Summary: Neil won’t die here; you know this.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 113





	i care for you still and i will forever (that was my part of the deal)

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who asked for hurt!neil and overly-protective/worried!protagonist. sorry this took me way to long to finish, mate. i hope this is worth the wait!
> 
> // title is from _[white ferrari by frank ocean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dlz_XHeUUis)_

Neil won’t die here; you know this. You have his death certification seared right onto the surface of your brain, after all; the date, time, and location all filled out – stamped and ready to be handed off at the right moment. You know that it’s not today, not right now, and not in this place. Not like this. You hold onto that knowledge like a vice, repeating it to yourself as words of comfort as you watch the surgeons operate on him.

He won’t die here; you know this. You know this because you’re still alive – still breathing – watching him fighting for his life on the other side of the glass panel. You try to focus on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat on the machine he’s hooked to, if only to stop your mind from roaming to dark and depressing places. Somewhere like the room the rescue team had found him in. You’ve never been there yourself, but you’ve seen pictures; you’ve watched the footage. It was a wretched, horrid place that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemies, but well—maybe right now, you do.

You do as you wish it on the antagonists who had done this to Neil. It’s useless, really, because they are long gone now – _dead_ , executed by a few well-placed shots from the rescue team, on your direct order. Still, vindictively, you wish you’d dragged it out a bit more; made them suffer the very same way they did Neil.

Only, you don’t, not really. Wish, that is. The rescue team was only a few seconds short of being too late, and you don’t care to find out what might have happened if they _were_ late. However, it’s difficult to stop the depressing thoughts from rushing in and taking over. A nagging voice, relentless and unforgiving, scratching and howling at the back of your mind, asking senseless questions like, _what if?_

 _What’s happened, happened,_ it says, _but what if?_

It’s as unreasonable as your desire to do harm on dead men is foolish. Still, one of the surgeons pulls a bullet out of Neil’s left shoulder; the machine keeping track of his vitals beeps loudly, and everything turns frantic. _What if, what if, what if,_ the voice keeps dreading on, synchronizing its poison to the thunderous beat of your own heart.

That destructive train of thought is only broken as an agent comes up to you. She calls your name, loud enough to shake away that treacherous voice in your head. You don’t turn to face her, only taking your eyes off of Neil’s slacken face for a brief moment to glance at her out of the corner of your eye – a tacit order for her to go on.

“The team has finished prepping, sir,” she reports, voice steady and firm against the dreadful beeping coming through the glass panel. “We’re ready to go when you are.”

Your eyes shift back to Neil, and the sight of him lying on that operating table – unconscious and barely responsive now – makes you think of the agent’s message as a blessing. It gives you an excuse to detach yourself from this torture of having to watch your lover teetering on the edge of death.

(Even though you know that he’ll be fine – well, not _fine_ , exactly; the recovery will be hell to get through, but he’ll be _alive_ – it’s still hard to stand witness to the struggle to that point in real time. You’ve been so used to the _after_ , to him already well on his way to recovery after bad missions, that you’ve never thought preparing yourself for the beginning point of the process.)

Neil would understand, being the good agent that he is, with the fate of the world at stake and all, but... you can’t leave him like this. You _won’t_. Not when the nagging voice is relentless still. You need to stay; need to see it for yourself that he will make it through this. You _need_ it.

With your mind made up, you finally turn away from the hectic scene on the other side of the glass – sparing yourself just one short moment of peace – and face the young agent. “Leave without me,” you tell her, taking note of the way she barely reacts at your order. “My presence isn’t needed for the first phase of the mission, so you’ll do fine without me. I’ll meet up with you at the rally point of the second phase. Sergeant Ives will assume leadership of the team until then.”

The hesitance in the agent is quite apparent. She darts her eyes to the operating room, a quick glance that you would have missed, had you not been watching her face intently as a momentary distraction from the dreadful operation behind you. Whatever assumptions she might have conjured up in her mind, she doesn’t voice it, thankfully. Instead, she nods firmly, confirming your order before turning to leave with a farewell _‘sir’._

You don’t watch her walk away, already turning back to face the operating room. The scene inside is less hectic now; Neil’s heartbeat has returned to a steady rhythm when you weren’t paying attention. That small bit of good news is enough to lift most of the tension from your shoulders.

You stand unmoving for the rest of the operation, eyes shifting periodically from the surgeons’ steadfast movements to the vital sign monitor. The exhale you allow past your lips when one of the surgeons turns to you and gives you a thumbs up is almost earth-shattering. The force of it alone could be enough to shake the glass – and the self-control – separating you from running into the room and giving said surgeon a big hug for his effort. For helping keeping Neil alive.

In reality, you only nod in acknowledgement at the surgeon, who nods in return, before turning back to finish stitching Neil up. The worst is over now; the nagging voice has gone quiet, scuttling back to the dark corner it has crawled out of, leaving behind a trail of its poison still. You pay it no mind; can’t think of anything else but the fact that _Neil’s alright; he didn’t die here._

And, he won’t – not for a long time to come, not for as long as you could push it, at least.

You don’t leave his bedside for the rest of the night, only getting up for the rest room and checking in with your team. It will be a while before phase two takes place, so you have quite a bit of time to spend with Neil before you must leave to join your team. For the meantime, you’re confined to the rather uncomfortable chair you’ve dragged from its place against the wall and placed next to his bed, on the right side.

You sit and watch his face; watch the sign of life behind his eyelids – his eyes moving ever so slightly in slumber. There’s a vital sign monitor right next to his bed, but you pay it no mind. It seems artificial in comparison to what you can feel for yourself. So, you feel. You place your hand on the bed, basking in the warmth he’s giving off – one more sign that he’s here, that he’s still alive and well. You hold his hand in yours, the tips of your index and middle fingers pressing gently against the pulse point on the inside of his wrist – yet another sign of life because you need it; need to feel the steady rhythm as a way to ground yourself to the reality that he _is_ alive. He _is_ well.

A little over six hours since he was wheeled out of the operating room and placed into this private one, Neil begins to regain consciousness. You call for the nurse, who quickly makes her way into the room and works with practiced ease to remove the ventilator tube from his throat. She checks Neil’s vitals next, noting it down in his chart before having some quiet words with him about his conditions. You stand to the side and let her do her job, biting down on the urge to just rush over and check on Neil yourself.

The nurse leaves, eventually, giving you some instruction about Neil’s aftercare as she goes. You don’t exhale in relief when the door finally closes behind her, but it’s a close thing.

Instead, you focus your attention back to Neil, returning to his side and handing him the glass of water without him asking for it. He takes a sip from the straw, then smiles gratefully at you as you set the glass down back in its place on the bedside table. You settle back in the uncomfortable chair again, taking his hand in yours like it never should have left.

“Hey,” you greet, welcoming your lover back to the land of the living.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough from the ventilator tube and the lack of use. You give his hand a light squeeze, a tacit comfort that he hangs onto with what little strength he’s managed to regain alongside his consciousness. “How long have I been out?”

“A while,” you reply simply.

He doesn’t press you for the specifics of it. Instead, he hums in acknowledgement, then asks with a quizzical look in his eyes, “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Of course,” you answer without missing a beat.

“You really didn’t have to,” he says, his smile looking dopey with his eyes glazed over from sleep and the drugs they’re having him on. It’s so sweet – so soft – that you can’t help a lazy smile of your own in response.

“I wanted to.”

His index finger curls slight against your wrist, a physical reminder that he’s fine now. That you have nothing to worry about. He says as much, which pulls a slightly – only _slightly_ – sardonic huff from you.

“I’m alive,” he rectifies, shifting his head a little on the pillow to get a better look at you. “I’m still here.”

You take a moment to watch his face again, looking for the proof to support his words. His eyes are open now, filled with life and meeting your own. His hand is still warm in yours; the pulse under your finger still beating away steadily. He’s alive. He’s well.

“Yes, you are,” you say aloud, not really knowing if you’re confirming his words or the fact to yourself.

Silence takes over the space that follows – granting you a pleasant moment where all you do is look at each other, letting yourself be captivated by the other’s presence. You feel your chest burn up from it – from just having him near you and looking at you like you are everything he’s ever wanted. It’s too much, for right now, that you can’t help but look away. Your eyes return to your hand, still holding onto his – the dark shade of your skin a great contrast against his paleness.

In that moment, the nagging voice returns, bringing with it that ugly, _ugly_ feeling within you. You allow yourself just to dwell in it for a brief moment, to dampen that fire burning in your chest because, for right now – just right now, you just can’t deal with it.

“It was very foolish, what you did,” you find yourself saying, breaking away the comfortable silence with a bitter note in your voice.

Neil, instead of looking contrite or ashamed, only gazes at you with that soft look in his eyes still. Ever since he came to you that night looking for companionship, only to give into desire and demand more from you – which you gave, easily, wholeheartedly because he had desire of your own too, that you’ve been withholding inside your heart for so long – it’s been hard to hide what you’re feeling from him. Now, it seems, isn’t an exception.

He takes one look at you, and even with sleep still clinging stubbornly to his expression and the drugs fogging up his system, he’s still able to recognize the course of destruction you’ve decided to lead yourself on. In a flash, his eyes turn intentful, meaningful, and you realize this: he’s made a decision too.

He carries it out with a hum, thoughtful, eyes pinned on you as a cheeky grin pulls on his lips, making him look so young – every part the over-enthusiastic ex-MI6 you had recruited over a year ago. “I was expecting _heroic_ ,” he admits, tone light against the vicious voice at the back of your mind, “or maybe just _brave_.”

You can’t help it; you snort, barely keeping yourself from rolling your eyes. You realize what he’d doing. What he’s doing _for you_. He’s telling you – with so little words – that there’s no need to rehash painful memories; that what’s happened, happened – no way to change it even if you want to. He’s giving you an easy way out of this – out of the thoughts and vindication that have been plaguing your mind ever since his team members returned bearing grave news. He’s giving you a chance to fall back into old routines that you can easily pick up if you just allow yourself to.

The nagging voice is relentless, yes, but his is much stronger, much more grounding, much more reasonable. So, in the end, it’s an easy choice as to which you will listen to.

“The line between bravery and foolishness can get real blurry sometimes,” you point out, taking up the opportunity he’s given you – to fall back to what’s simple, to what’s his and yours instead of wallowing in things that are out of your ability to fix.

“Hm, I’m pretty sure it was bravery that drove me to give myself up for my teammates,” Neil counters, and you shake your head, smiling nonetheless. Only Neil is able to battle wits after having only just woken up from a three-hour surgery.

“And it was foolishness that made you forget about yourself,” you return, settling further in your seat as you give him a challenging look.

“Only if there was someone there to remind me of that, hm?” he ponders aloud, subdued.

“Your teammates tried.”

“But I’d only take orders from _you_.”

“Then I’ll join you on every mission you’re assigned to from now on,” you say, without much thoughts to it. It’s only half a joke, you realize, as you turn the words over in your mind.

Neil smiles, lower lip caught between his teeth as if he’s trying to contain it. “As much as I’d love to spend _all_ of my time with you, my _beloved_ , you know that’s not realistic.”

“I’m the boss,” you point out, uncharacteristically childish. “I can make it realistic.”

“You wouldn’t risk our operation like that,” he argues, smiling still.

“I would,” you say quickly, honestly, voice unwavering. “For you.”

The fire returns to your chest the moment the words leave your mouth, and you realize – truly take it in – what you’d just said. You mean it, of course – that part is never in doubt – but it’s still too soon for this. You’re almost embarrassed at how it just slipped from your mind, down to your tongue and jumping straight out of your mouth.

Neil doesn’t share the same sentiment, it seems – which shouldn’t come that much as a surprise for you, considering the way he’s been looking at you ever since you told him you never left his side ever since you got him back. Proof of it comes with the uneven beeping of the machine next to his bed, giving up what he’s feeling, how he’s reacting to the love declaration that you’ve so mindlessly let slip, so clumsily disguised under such simple words. It adds fuel to the fire burning inside your chest still, making it burn brighter, and brighter, giving off a heat that could rival the sun.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” he says quietly, “I would never do that to you.” You close your eyes and let the words wash over you; the _I love you, too_ is as loud – _much_ louder, actually, than the racing of your own heart, than the cackles of fire burning around it.

Without a moment of hesitance, you rid yourself of that uncomfortable chair and find a place on his bed, sitting next to him, facing him, hands still entangled in his. You bring them to your lips to press a kiss on the back of his hand, letting it linger as you bask in the warmth radiating from him. Then, with a smile and a calmness that betrays all the rush of feelings swirling inside you, you respond, “I know.”

It’s admission, acknowledgement, and affirmation all the same. Neil beams in response, and asks for another kiss, on his lips this time. You’re much too helpless against the wildfire he’s started within you to refuse him of it – of anything, really. You lean down and press your lips upon his, letting this kiss linger as well as you revel in the reality that he’s here; he’s alive; and he’s all _yours_.

(Later, when you’re reunited with your team at the rally point, as you’ve promised, Ives is unimpressed. There’s a tinge of pity, as well, in his eyes, which you can only detect after years spent working with the guy. You pay it no heed, though, knowing Ives never means it in any wrong way.

He proves as much as he asks, “How is he?” He’s careful to keep his voice low, out of the other agents’ hearing range.

“Stable,” you reply with the same caution, though with less of a dispassionate look in your eyes.

“Good, then,” Ives says, giving you a considering look. “That mean you’ll focus on the mission now, cowboy?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, smiling nonetheless as you give your confirmation, “Of course, Sergeant.”)

**Author's Note:**

> my [protagoniel blog](https://iamtheprotagoneil.tumblr.com/) plug, per usual; kudos for anyone who caught the name reference i dropped in the fic 😉. prompt is accepted, although i can only fill it when inspiration hits so please be patient with me.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated. honestly, i read and check each one; y'all are so precious to me <3


End file.
